None so blind
by Catnado
Summary: After a mysterious attack leaves Chandler blinded, the team has to struggle to solve the crime and to support one another. Starts w. unrequited Kent/Chandler, ends with Kent/Chandler. Miles/Judy, Erica/Mansell. TW: Violence. OCD. UPDATE: A blind woman is murdered and the team discovers a connection. Louise Iver is involved.
1. Chapter 1

Chandler pulled into his parking space in his flat's garage, opened the door to check against the lines, and noting he was off center by a few centimeters, reversed and repeated until he was satisfied. After getting out of the car, he performed his routine check, walking around it to make sure there weren't any scratches or dirt. After the first check, he wanted to make sure that what he'd seen above the right rear tire was only a shadow from the car parked next to his, so went back. As much as he disliked his servitude to his compulsions, he reflected bitterly, he was slowly improving. The night the Abrahamians died, he had spent almost half an hour in the garage.

As he straightened up, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Instincts warned him of a threat but he was too late to defend himself against the object that came crashing against his head.

Chandler came to, dizzy and nauseated, tied to a chair. When he was capable of coherent thought, he categorized the nausea as a symptom of concussion and then began to gag. Somebody pushed his head forward and a gloved hand held a plastic bag under his mouth as he vomited. Relief and the habits of a lifetime made him say, "Thank you," though as his brain was less fogged, he remembered it was also an important part of negotiations. Treat them as though they're doing you a favor and they'll start to think of you as worthy of favors. After that, the person held a bottle of water to his mouth, first keeping the bag in position so he could rinse out the last of the vomit, and then letting him drink.

"What is it that you want?" Chandler asked, evenly and mildly, when he was done with the water. There was no answer, so Chandler tried to make as much sense out of the situation as possible. They might have kept him from possibly choking on his vomit solely to keep him alive, but letting him rinse his mouth and drink suggested that there was no animosity. The figure kept out of his sight, which he also took as a hopeful sign. If they intended to kill him, they wouldn't have bothered concealing themselves.

The location seemed to be an old basement. The walls were cement and he could see the bottom of a window. A shelving unit sagged next to it, a few dusty boxes and tools on the nearly empty shelves. The air was musty and a little damp. He could smell old cigarettes when his captor came near again. The arm and hands were almost certainly masculine, average build, though he couldn't rule out a large-boned woman. A heavy, loose-fitting dark jumper, either black or close to it, and work gloves, the kind you could find in any DIY.

He frowned in confusion as he saw a green laser pointer dot on the wall, then gasped as he felt his right eye forced open. "Please listen, you don't have to do this, there must be some other way," he started to say as calmly as he could, but heard his own voice rising in panic as he saw a blaze of light and felt a searing pain. To his horror, he heard himself babbling, "Please, no, please, don't, don't do this" as his left eye was forced open, he saw the same light and felt the same pain. He tried to, somehow, see something, opening his eyes as wide as he could, turning his head back and forth, but nothing worked. There was nothing but darkness and he felt himself sag in despair.

Something interrupted the sound of his own ragged, broken breathing, what sounded like footsteps either ascending or descending the stairs. They must have been ascending because soon he sensed that he was alone.


	2. Chapter 2

Miles grumbled, "Better be nothing," as he reached for his phone. They'd gotten a sitter and he and Judy were finally out for a night on their own. Nothing special, just a pint or two at the local pub and then dinner, but the time together was what made it important. "Christ," he barely breathed as he opened the email marked "Urgent. Chandler" and saw the thumbnail of the attachment. It was his boss, tied to a chair, his head bent as if he were unconscious or...no, he refused to accept that idea.

His fingers fumbled as he dialed the station and pressed the extension for the IT division. "Need a trace, NOW, on DI Chandler's phone. I'm also gonna send you an email, need that traced, too." Maybe the techie picked up on his tone or maybe just for once wasn't disposed to argue that something couldn't be done or couldn't be prioritized or some other shit like that, since he just said, "Setting up the phone trace now."

While he waited for that, he mouthed to Judy, "Give me your phone." She pulled it out of her purse and handed it to him, but the techie came back on just then. "Right, I've got it down to somewhere between XX and XX, just south of XX."

"Can't you get any closer?" It was more a plea to God than to the techie.

"Sorry, sir. Erm, what else can I do?"

"Get me Internal Emergency for the district that's in and put me through." It wasn't more than a moment before he heard the steady, "What is your emergency?"

"DS Miles. DI Chandler's somewhere between XXX. Prisoner or hostage situation. Get everybody on it." In the brief pause, he was aware again of Judy and made eye contact with her as he explained what little he knew. She pressed her hand against her upper lip and started to text. He knew that she'd be contacting the rest of the team. As he listened to the plans the division chief was describing, he mouthed to her, "Tell 'em to come to X and X," and then said, to the division chief, "You start, but when we get there, my team's taking lead on the house to house. And that's final."

"Finlay's on his way, so's Emerson. Haven't heard from Meg ." Miles just nodded as he ran to hail a cab. They'd walked to the pub and running back to his car would be slower. He showed the driver his badge. "Emergency. Fast as you can."

During the short ride, he examined the photo for any more details, trying not to look at Chandler's slumped figure. Overhead lighting, dim, but a tiny sliver of street light behind him, about shoulder height. So a basement. He threw a note at the driver and scrambled out to meet the officer in charge.

"He's probably in a basement. There's a bit of window and a street light, so probably near the front." She radioed that to the rest of the searchers.

He heard the sound of a Vespa, then a clatter, and saw Kent tearing toward them. "Right. Kent, you and I are taking the center and working out, you keep the uniforms working their way in. The priority is getting the boss out safe, catching the bleeders is second." He could see that Kent was fighting for control and decided that any word of encouragement would probably make him fall apart rather than help him focus. Nodding to the officer and taking one of the radios, he strode towards the center of the area the techie had described, Kent at his side and two uniforms following closely.

"Window's the wrong shape, no window in the front, block glass, not regular," he muttered as he peered at each window. "Wait, let's try that one." He banged on the door and after a few moments, a teenage girl opened the door on the chain. "Police." He showed her his badge. "Let us in to see the basement."

"Uh, okay?" She looked nervous but then it'd make anybody nervous, he reminded himself.

"Which way's the basement?"

"I'm not sure."

"Not sure?"

"I'm just babysitting, really!"

Kent pushed past her, opening one door to find a bathroom, then another. "Found it, Sarge." Miles flipped on the light. It was bright, probably too bright to match the photo. He looked up at the ceiling and none of the lights were like that one. "Not it." He didn't bother saying anything to the flustered girl as he left.

The next basement they investigated had finished walls so that was a wipeout. By that time, Mansell came running up. Miles gestured to the other side of the road with his chin. "Do that side. Me and Kent will keep on this side."

"You don't think-" Mansell started, hesitantly.

"I don't think anything," Miles snapped and turned to the next building. There was a "For Sale" sign on the door but a light on in the basement, a dim one. As he and Kent walked up the steps, Kent said, "The door. It's open." Miles met Kent's eyes and saw the mix of hope and dread that he was feeling. He eased the door open and didn't hear a sound. Kent's and his flashlights ran along the walls. "That one's open, too," Kent whispered.

Miles pushed it open and winced at the creak. There was just enough light to go down the stairs. He froze for an instant at seeing an indeterminate figure in a chair. "Boss? Boss!"

"Miles?" It was the boss' voice, but the tiny, almost plaintive groan sounded nothing like him. He moved faster than he would have thought he could, Kent right behind him. Kent immediately knelt behind Chandler, yanking at the ropes. "Sir?" he almost whimpered.

"Miles...I'm blind. They blinded me." Chandler raised his head and his unfocused gaze went right past his officers.

"Oi! Get the ambulance!" Miles shouted at the uniforms who had followed them, but then froze, staring at Chandler. He couldn't believe it, he didn't want to believe it.

Emerson finished with the ropes, saying, in a choked voice, "Don't try to move, sir, looks like you have a head injury," and crouched again, close to Chandler but not touching him.

Miles made himself press the radio buttons. "We found him. Injured. Head injury and..." He swallowed but couldn't get the exact word out. "And his eyes." More uniforms came in and gave him something to yell about. "Clear the way, don't crowd the stairs, no need to contaminate the scene!" He had no interest in trying to separate the concerned from the gapers or the ghoulish, and besides, the boss wouldn't want relative strangers staring at him, even if it was out of concern.

Mansell simply shoved his way down the stairs as the uniforms left. "Right here, boss," he said, in an almost gentle tone. They all moved out of the way as the medics came in. At least their voices were louder than Chandler's harsh breathing and the sounds were almost routine. "Blood pressure high but okay." "Injury right above the left ear, swelling and bleeding, not severe." Then one of them addressed Chandler. "We're going to move you to the ambulance and get you to the hospital."

"I'm coming with him." Miles was ready to fight for it but the medic said, "Right. Only one of you in the ambulance, please, the others can follow." Riley was at the head of the stairs and hastily moved out of the way.

"Mansell can fill you in, love."

They deposited Chandler in the ambulance and Miles sat beside him. Any other member of his team, he'd have been gripping their hand, but he didn't know if that would help Chandler or push him deeper into whatever horrors he was experiencing. At least he was certain that Chandler wouldn't welcome inane reassurances, so didn't even try to say anything about how they might be able to fix him up. Then he realized the one thing he could do for Chandler was to stay a cop and help him to stay a cop, too.

"What do you remember, boss?"


	3. Chapter 3

Riley looked at Mansell and saw that his hands were shaking. Kent, his hands stuffed in his pockets, was glaring at nothing in particular. "Come on," she said, "I'll drive us to the hospital." She put a hand on Kent's shoulder. "Get a move on, then, that way we'll know right away what the doctors say." That seemed to snap him back to himself and he and Mansell followed her to her car.

Mansell opened his mouth to say something and then violently shook his head. Kent filled in the silence. "He was here, tied to the chair. They blinded him. He's blind."

She felt the same freezing cold inside the way she did when her youngest fell off a broken tree branch, the same feeling that a few seconds had dreadful, irrevocable consequences. "Who did it?" She desperately wanted to keep herself from thinking about the consequences, about what Chandler must be going through.

"He didn't say." Kent laughed bitterly. "Maybe we'd better wait for the identification parade."

She didn't like the ugly joke, the twist on his face, the tension in his body, or the edge in his voice. As a cop, she'd seen and heard that kind of thing more often than anybody should. Seeing it in Emerson Kent, dedicated cop, loving brother, and, despite his many bad decisions, good man, was like seeing obscene graffiti scrawled across a pleasant landscape painting. She stopped and wrapped her arms around him and felt a surge of relief when his face crumpled into normal, human tears. "He'll need all of us, Em, sweetheart."

Mansell climbed into the passenger seat, leaving Kent the back and relative privacy. She fished in her purse for a packet of tissues and passed one to Mansell, who loudly blew his nose, another to Kent, and wiped her own eyes with a third. She concentrated on nothing but driving on the way to the hospital. Not seeing an open parking space, she pulled up at the emergency entrance. "Out you get. I'll find a spot." Looking in the rear view mirror, she could see Mansell putting a hand on Kent's shoulder. That was her partner, she thought, an absolute dick most of the time, but one of the ones to count on when things went to shit.

The walk back from the parking lot gave her the shivers. It wasn't scared shivers, even with all her senses on high alert, it was simply not wanting to be alone, not even for the quick walk back. She almost ran the last meters to the light and figures at the desk. She showed her badge. "I'm here for Joseph Chandler."

The receptionist took her badge and typed something in the system. "They're still examining him, but they'll bring him to room 218, take the elevator up, then around the corner to your left, past the second bank of elevators."

She repeated the instructions to herself, still fighting to keep herself from imagining anything. "Room 218, 218, up, to the left, past the second bank, 218." The hospital bed was empty, Skip in one chair, looking ten years older than he had that afternoon, Mansell staring out the window, Kent typing at his phone. He looked up when she came in and said, swiftly, "Llewellyn," as if she had accused him of updating Facebook or something equally callous.

That reminded her, "Somebody had better tell Commander Anderson. I'd imagine he won't want to find out from a report. Or gossip." When she said "somebody," she meant Miles, since he was still the highest ranking there, and he nodded. "I'll do it." He stepped outside the room, returning a minute later. "He's in Wales, some security do or another. I left a message for him to call."

Every time there was a noise outside the room, they all tensed, hoping that it would be Chandler or at least news. She found herself irrationally angry at everybody who walked by or was pushed in a chair or on a gurney. Finally a doctor came in, asking, "You're here for Joseph Chandler?" Her voice was far too tranquil, almost lilting, and Riley found herself resenting that, too.

"Yes, will he be all right?" Mansell was the first to get words out and Riley was grateful he had.

"He has a slight concussion. I'm afraid there's nothing we could do for his sight." Mansell started swearing, a steady mutter that seemed as uninterruptible and inherent as the ticking of a clock.

"So what did the bastards do to him?" Miles ground out the question, sounding more like himself.

"It was a laser. His retinas and corneas are burned and the nerves are irreparable. I am sorry."

"Is he in pain?" Kent asked, his eyes huge and anxious.

"The burns are painful, so we've given him something for that. They'll bring him here in a few minutes but he'll be asleep."

"When will he be awake?" There was no way on earth that she was going to let him wake up alone.

"Not for several hours. He might be out of things for a few hours after that." She smiled sadly. "If I can make a recommendation, pick somebody to stay and somebody else to get at least a couple of hours of sleep, to be ready to take the next shift. I know the temptation to burn yourself out waiting here, but it won't help him." Miles looked ready to snap some remark and she added, "It's the same when one of our own is hurt. If you don't get some rest, you don't function."

"She's right," Miles said, his tone making it clear that he didn't like it. Then he turned to her, Mansell, and Kent. "Kent, you go home and get a few hours' sleep. Mansell, Riley, you go to the station and start there." Kent was ready to protest but Miles held up a hand. "No, that's an order, Kent. I want you to take the next shift here with the boss. It's probably going to be one of the worst things you'll have to do and I don't want you doing it without at least a few hours sleep on you." Kent opened his mouth to argue but Miles glare shut him up.

"I'll drop you at home, Kent, and then Mansell and I will go on to the station." She quickly hugged Miles who, trying to return to his usual sarcastic tone, growled at Kent and Mansell. "Either of you try hugging me and I'll have your badges."

Kent got out quietly at his flat. "See you tomorrow," he said, automatically. He wasn't steady, walking up the stairs, but he made it inside. She waited until she saw a light turn on inside and then turn off again, a few moments later.

"Poor bugger," Mansell muttered. He must have been thinking along the same lines as her, not surprising, though, not really. "This is really ripping him apart." A moment later, he added, "Oh, fuck, I forgot to tell Erica what's going on." He tried to chuckle. "I left her in a situation no lady likes to be left in."

"Good thing that you've got a real excuse." It was like hearing bad impersonators imitate their usual light joking.

He started to dial and then sighed heavily. "Don't think I can say it yet." He texted rapidly for a few moments, then sighed,"'S okay, she says I still get to live."

She pulled into the station parking lot. There were more cars there than usual at night and she looked at the ones in her row, doing a mental tally of the cars she recognized. A few SOCO, a few uniforms, Igor, and some she couldn't associate with names.

In the Incident Room, she picked up a marker but couldn't make herself write "Joseph Chandler." Instead, she headed up a board with the word Motive.

"Don't think it's likely to be his personal life. They send the photo to Miles." Mansell frowned. "Who _would_ they have sent it to if it were personal, anyway?"

She didn't like thinking about the fact that she had no idea. "Not to mention that if it was personal, it probably would have been a lot nastier." Chandler might have chided her for her imprecise wording, but Mansell nodded in agreement.

"Why blind him, then?" Mansell muttered the question but it was loud enough for her to hear.

"I can't think. Oh, I wish we had Buchan here," she started to say and then realized that nobody had mentioned telling him. If they had, he'd certainly be here, all eager and pompous and determined to help. She went back to her desk, dreading his reactions. He was almost like Kent that way, it was easy to make him beam or to deflate.

"Hello" He sounded like she'd woken him up.

"Ed, it's Riley. Some very bad news, I'm afraid."

"What is it?"

"It's the boss. Somebody blinded him."

There was a shocked silence and she blinked back tears as Buchan asked, "Where is he? Will he be all right?"

"He's in the hospital, Miles is with him. We're in the Incident Room."

Background noises told her Buchan was moving around and he said, shakily, "I'll be there as soon as I can. Certainly, we must all rally round in his hour of need." With that last sentence, he clearly tried to sound his usual self, but it came through sadly, the effort obvious. She tried to pretend that it worked and to sound encouraged, "We certainly do."


	4. Chapter 4

Buchan would have liked a few moments just to grieve for Joe. He suspected that the others thought of Chandler's blindness as a threat to his job and his identity. Buchan was aware of that but he also saw it as shutting off so many of Joe's pleasures. Certainly things were better for blind people than before, but still, to have lost the ease of picking up a book and absorbing its contents, or communing with the genius of a great artist or architect by looking at their works, that was a terrible loss. But necessity drove and so he kept his mind as best he could on work.

While information was still coming in from the SOCOs, he was delving in the books that he had brought up from the archives, occasionally popping up to add a possibility to the whiteboard.

Mansell, while making himself more tea, saw the first heading and yelled across the room, " _Rivals to a throne_. You aren't telling me that the boss is secretly a royal, are you?"

"No, no. But during the Byzantine Empire, especially, the ruling emperor would have potential rivals blinded so that they couldn't rule."

Miles had to come in at just that time. "Right, I don't really fancy interrogating Her Majesty about her whereabouts last night."

Buchan tried not to sound impatient. "The idea behind it was that it was a way of disabling a rival. Perhaps Joe represented a threat to somebody's rank, a promotion?"

Miles scoffed, "Why'd you have to put it that other way, then?" But at least he seemed to be giving the idea some consideration. "Naah. It's not like he was up for promotion. And if he'd come up with potential dirt on somebody, he'd have reported it once he was certain. If he wasn't certain, he'd have talked to one of us, gotten somebody else involved." Buchan could actually see the effort it took Miles to say, "Not bad thinking, though. Somebody too squeamish to kill or maybe didn't want all the attention an actual murder would get."

Buchan felt a sense of guilty gratification as Miles took up a marker and added _Threats_ as a subheading under _Blinding as Revenge_. "I was thinking about this one at the hospital. Riley, I want you to get all the files on people who threatened Chandler. See if any of them mentioned blinding. Not that I think it's likely, mind, because they'd at least have thrown a few punches, maybe gone for the rest of his face."

Buchan was about to comment about a sense of strict justice that might keep somebody from throwing punches, but the phone rang Miles' desk. "Right, we'll be right up," he answered, then announced to the room at large, "SOCO's got everything in."

Buchan trailed behind them and made eye contact with Riley. They exchanged sad smiles and his stomach clenched a little. She had handled the consequences of Mansell's prank gracefully, but every time he saw her smile or even just look at him, he felt another pang of disappointment. He'd been foolish and vain to think that she would leave her husband for him, but hope and love make fools of us all. Witness poor Kent, who in a more poetic day, probably would have written a sonnet for each smile he received from Joe. Those smiles had diminished in frequency during the last two years and he could see the effects on the younger man. He would have said something but his sympathy would have been unwelcome.

In the SOCO office, the few items retrieved from the scene lay on a table, each bagged. The officer described them briskly, "We've confirmed that the rope is an ordinary kind you can get in any DIY store, in the most common size. There was a bag with vomit in it, but you said the vomit was probably DI Chandler's. We're doing a tox screen in case he was drugged, but it's most likely the effect of the concussion. The outside is covered with dust that matches the dust on the shelves, so it looks like they grabbed it off the shelf. The only other thing that they brought to the scene was the laser. That's our best lead." The tool was worse for wear and it looked like part of the end was missing.

Mansell asked, "But can't you get those anywhere?"

"Not one this strong. This grade is illegal to sell to nonprofessionals."

"So who uses this sort of thing professionally?"

"Laser shows at concerts, some laboratories, some manufacturing." Mansell nodded, looked at Miles, and said, "I can take that one, Sarge."

"We've gone over his car. No prints except his own and Sergeant Miles'."

"Yeah, he gave me a lift night before yesterday. Judy's car was in for repairs and she had mine." Buchan vaguely remembered that. Miles declared that of course he'd take the Tube, he'd taken it for longer than Chandler had been alive without breaking it or himself, but Chandler's quiet insistence won. He suspected the rest of the team remembered, too, since nobody looked surprised.

"Inside, there were microscopic traces of dirt, nothing distinctive. A mix of soil, dust, traces of rubbish of various kinds, more or less exactly what you'd expect from somebody who walks in this area. Some of Chandler's blood on the back seat, consistent with his head injury if he was placed prone across the seats."

The officer looked at them sympathetically. "I wish there were more."

"Well, thanks anyway," Miles answered. He turned to them. "Right, Mansell, the laser is our best lead. The boss might remember more details, too."

Back in the Incident Room, Buchan studied the board labeled assailant. The only details there were "Smoker," "Partners or physically strong individual," "Gave water before blinding."

The duality of it was still gnawing at him. It stood out so much, it should be a clue of some sort. He didn't have any subject headings for duality in his archives, so he needed to search his memory. Perhaps searching the web might help. As he looked, two concepts emerged. Chandler had told Miles that he thought it was one person, but the two possibilities were compatible with it. The first was disassociative identity disorder. The second was twins.

That merited returning to the Incident Room. "Gentlemen, Meg, I've found two possibilities for the odd nature of the attack. While Joe told Miles that he thought it was a single assailant, it's possible that twins, or possibly even siblings with a strong resemblance, might have seemed like the same person."

Mansell looked like he was rolling his eyes but Meg nodded thoughtfully. Buchan continued, "While we're not dealing with a good twin, bad twin, it could be that one of the two sympathized enough with Joe to try to make him more comfortable, while the other was intent on his—or her—gory deed."

"So what's the other possibility?" she asked, saving him from an awkward silence.

"Disassociative personality disorder, or what used to be called split personality. This has been a factor in many dark crimes. Under extreme stress, the mind creates another persona, one who can better endure the situation, usually called an alter. An abused child might, in the absence of a real protector, create an aggressive persona who can fight back. A veteran with PTSD might create an alter who was never in a war. A child who resents a strict religious parent might create an openly atheistic alter."

"That's something that psychologists who need their own heads examined invented, and defense lawyers with nothing else to use latched on to," Miles scoffed.

"Ah, it's a controversy, but recent studies have shown evidence of altered states of mind in people who have been diagnosed with DID."

Riley chimed in. "Leave it up, it's still a possibility."

Buchan decided to be satisfied with that small contribution.


	5. Chapter 5

Chandler thought red hot desperation must be rising from him in waves, like heat and smoke from a fire. The fate that made his needs and drives ridiculous must be gloating now at how something so ridiculous and petty could torture him. He needed to pee and the thought of asking for help of any kind had him almost paralyzed and voiceless. _Get on with it, man,_ he fiercely told himself. _You think it's going to fix itself somehow? Or are you waiting for them to bring a bedpan, or better yet, a diaper?_ The thought of those filthy, humiliating options, or of worse, was enough. He made himself mentally form the words and then force his voice into some sort of normalcy. "Kent?"

"Yes, sir?"

His typical response grated on Chandler's nerves, though he knew it was unfair and illogical, just the contrast between the painfully personal nature of his request and the normalcy and ease of Kent's answer. It was as though he'd asked for nothing more than a file from another room. "Will you help me to find the bathroom?"

"Of course, sir. Give me a moment to put the IV on the stand."

Chandler heard little noises and tried to make a challenge out of identifying them. Then there was motion next to him and a mechanical sound. "Was that the bed rail?"

"Yes, sir, the left side. The stand's on your left when you get up." Fortunately, Kent didn't offer to help him get up, or worse, simply do haul him to his feet. "D'you want directions or to take my arm?"

"Directions, please." Anything to let him feel less helpless.

Without being able to see Kent's face, it was difficult to determine the reason for the slightly different tone in his voice. "All right, a 90 degree turn to your right, then two steps forward." There was a brief pause and Kent said, "Sorry, one more step forward then about a half step." When Chandler completed that, Kent continued, "The lever for the door is on your right, about two centimeters above your waist, about five centimeters to the right from your right hip."

After a frustrating few seconds, Chandler had the lever in his hand, and pushed the door open. Kent's voice was suddenly right behind him and he jerked a little in surprise. "The seat is down, can I put it up for you?" Chandler answered, swiftly, "Please." "One step forward and then 90 degrees left. I'll be behind you again." After Chandler had turned, Kent said, "A tiny step forward, now it's about eight centimeters ahead of you. I'll close the door behind me, as long as you're fine on your feet." Chandler nodded, thankful not to have to ask, and Kent said, "I know it's not done in a hospital, but they don't have to know." Chandler felt a quick smile cross his face, far sooner than he'd have expected. Kent had turned it into a harmless, cheeky conspiracy, rather than an accommodation of his need for some autonomy and dignity in his new condition.

When he finished, after the physical relief, he realized he couldn't tell if he'd aimed at all correctly. He knew he could tell by feeling the seat, but the idea sent another shockwave of panic over him. Shuddering, he reached for the handle and flushed, then tried to remember where Kent had said the sink was. His reaction to the idea of touching the seat had driven everything else out of his short term memory and he had to take several tiny steps in different directions, groping with each one. He knew it would have been easier to call to Kent to open the door and guide him again. Probably it was even what Kent had been expecting since he hadn't given directions to the sink. But if he had made a mess and Kent saw it, the humiliation would be too much. Chandler couldn't find a basin plug so he just washed his hands for two minutes, repeating until they finally felt clean, if painfully raw. He found the door, opened it, and asked, quietly, "Kent? I've forgotten what the steps would be in reverse."

"Three steps forward and then a 90 degree to your left, the bed will be about six centimeters." Chandler lowered himself back into the bed, suddenly exhausted and overwhelmed by desolation. If this, crossing a small room to use the bathroom, left him drained mentally and physically, what use would he be to himself or anybody else? He reminded himself that he was recovering from a concussion, but another voice in his thoughts, as cruel and accurate as Louise Ivers' mock-gentle taunts, said, _You've been knocked out before, it was nothing like this._

Kent's voice broke through those thoughts. "Let me get the IV bag back up." Somehow the little sounds seemed assured and efficient. Kent then said, "Something to drink, sir? I brought coffee, they didn't have the green tea that you like in the cafe downstairs."

"Just water, thank you."

There was a sound of water being poured and then Joe felt the temperature difference as the water cooled the air near his hand. Keeping his hand low and the touch light to keep from knocking it over accidentally, he felt for the cup and drank.

He could hear what sounded like a thermos opening and then smelled coffee and heard a tiny sigh from Kent. The sound was familiar and his memory rapidly supplied the familiar image that went with it, the way that Kent always closed his eyes and sighed, his shoulders relaxing a little with the first swallow of good coffee, no matter how tense or upset he was. It was a good memory to have.

Kent's presence was remarkably comforting, even when he wasn't saying anything. Everything he had done was thoughtful, kind but never overbearing, and blessedly sensitive to his dignity and his particular needs. Chandler knew he wasn't good with expressing his appreciation, though Kent had always seemed to understand that when he said "good work" he meant more than a teacher writing the phrase on a child's essay did. Or at least he hoped so. There were times when he had the impression there was something more Kent wanted from him, something yearned for, even needed for his peace of mind, as much as he himself needed to be a policeman, Miles needed his family, or Mansell needed new stimulation.

He'd briefly even wondered if it was a sexual attraction, but that seemed unlikely. Perhaps at first it might have been possible, but once the novelty of the Saville Row suit and Oxbridge accent wore off, nobody with Kent's youth, faun-like good looks, and easy humor could have been drawn to him. Kent was introduced to his flaws all too soon, his short temper, his difficulties expressing himself, and the way his compulsions would start as an annoyance to a partner and then become a grinding torment. In short, Kent was familiar with his absolute inability to be the warm, loving partner that somebody like Kent deserved. He also knew that with Morgan's death, he had lost even the hope of being able to change.

Chandler knew that his mind was dancing around these subjects again to avoid thinking through the reality and consequences of his blindness. Perhaps it was irresponsible, since there was so much that he'd need to do, but those steps would be painful and irrevocable.

He'd have to hand over his command, for one thing. For the detective duties and for managing the team, he wouldn't have hesitated to recommend Miles, but unfortunately, there was everything else that went with it, the politics, the endless meetings, the paperwork that Miles simply couldn't accept had to be done correctly and precisely. He couldn't imagine many of the higher-ups wanting to deal with somebody who had no reservations about challenging their assumptions, telling them off if he felt it necessary, and even doing so in public. Only a few would see it as profound loyalty in action. Others would see it as intentionally disrupting their comfortable self-satisfaction and thus not to be tolerated, and try to hurry Miles out the door.

Would anybody else understand Buchan's role, understand that when his ideas did help in a case, it more than made up for all the times they came to nothing? Or would they see him just as an eccentric's failed whim and send him packing?

Mansell, Riley, and Kent were all more adaptable. They might even do better for themselves under a commander who could occasionally bring in the culprit alive. Riley would make a fine sergeant. Mansell still had too much to learn about managing people, about the line between comradely teasing and cruelty, but when he got that right, he'd also succeed in the role. As for Kent, if the right person mentored him, he could well make DI within ten years, if he learned how to control his pride and emotions. He had that mix of brains and dedication and was young enough to learn to control himself.

A sound at the door took him out of those thoughts. "Hello, Inspector," a woman's voice said. "I'm just here to take a few measurements, check on your concussion. The doctor will make his rounds in about an hour and will tell you when you can expect to be released." After a few moments, she asked, "Hold out your arm," and he felt her wrap a blood pressure cuff. "A little high but not too bad. Any more nausea or vomiting?"

"No, none."

"Dizziness, flares of pain?"

"Nothing."

She asked him a few more questions, his name, his birthday, the name of the Prime Minister, the month and year, and his answers were all satisfactory. "I can disconnect the IV now. You shouldn't experience any more pain, but if you do, press the call button and we can give you something."

"Thank you."

He heard a phone buzz with his ring tone for the office. "Where's my phone?"

"It's in the locker, but that was mine," Kent answered. "Hello, Sarge."

Chandler could hear the faint scratching of Miles voice, then Kent answered, "He's awake and the doctor will come see him within an hour or so. D'you want me to put you on speaker?" He wondered if Kent had anticipated his preference not to be talked about as though he were entirely helpless.

"Morning, boss," Miles said. "Bit less Sleeping Beauty, then?"

The humor made it easy to quip back. "I don't believe I was wearing a ballet tutu."

"I was thinking Disney, but that wouldn't suit you either. Right coloring, though, mind you."

"Switching to an actually relevant topic, how is the investigation?"

"Riley went through all the threatening letters in the files, nothing seemed like a good match. The laser seems a better lead. Mansell's tracked down the places in London that sell ones that strong, turns out they're only sold to professionals. Light shows, manufacturing, that sort of thing. Any of that ring a bell, do you know anybody along those lines who might have it in for you?"

"Nothing comes to mind immediately." He'd think more about it later, systematically and taking his time.

"Once they open up, we're going round. Meantime, Buchan's digging through the archives for other motives. Is there anybody who wants to make sure you don't get in the way of some award or promotion, anything like that? Maybe not at work but one of those private club sorts of things? Wouldn't want to kill you but make sure that you couldn't get in their way?"

Under the circumstances, the question was laughable, though he understood why Miles asked. "I'm hardly likely to be up for any awards or promotions myself. I've lately met but hardly exceeded any social obligations. I did accept an ancillary board position on the local chapter of a suicide prevention charity, but if somebody else had been sufficiently interested, they would have been invited as well."

"Right, didn't sound likely, but you never know. Kent, you stay with the boss."

Chandler wasn't at all sure about that. "I'm sure Kent has better things to do for the case than babysit me." He'd intended for it to be a mild remonstrance but it sounded raw and harsh.

"Maybe so," Miles answered, in that "water off my back" tone. "But this ain't an ordinary case. Maybe there's something you'll remember when the drugs wear off or maybe you're still a target. Or other members of the team are. I'm not letting Mansell or Riley out alone and I'm not going out alone, either."

Chandler would have preferred to argue the matter but had to admit the logic and Miles' stubbornness. Besides, he could hear what sounded like a medical team in the next room and hoped it would be the doctor doing rounds. He wanted, more than almost anything, to be in his own home, in his own clothing.

"I think the doctor is coming. Is there anything else?"

"Nothing for now but we'll keep you posted." There was a pause and Miles said, somewhat awkwardly, "Good luck, boss."

"Thank you."

He heard Kent pick up the phone and turn it off, then Kent's soft, apologetic voice. "Sir, if you'd rather that I stay outside the room, give you more privacy..."

Chandler felt a familiar guilt as he imagined the rebuked, morose expression on Kent's face. "No, not at all. I apologize for being ungracious. I'm frustrated with the situation, not you. Or your presence."

If Kent was going to answer, the moment was lost by the sound of a group of people coming in. "Inspector, I'm Dr. Felton." Chandler waited for him to introduce the others, but when he didn't, he heard Kent get up. "DC Kent. Pleased to meet you. And you are?"

"These are my interns and a few medical students. Your numbers are looking good. Any dizziness, nausea, shooting head pains? Any forgetfulness?"

"No, nothing."

"Right, then, do you have anybody at home to keep an eye on you?"

"I'll stay with him," Kent said.

"Good, I want you to call immediately if you feel dizzy or light-headed. You can go ahead and eat anything that you like, no dietary restrictions. You can shower but with somebody in the bathroom with you. You can expect to sleep quite a bit in the next few days, that's a normal reaction. There's a number in your packet to call for somebody to come visit and discuss options for your mobility. Also, call in a week for a follow-up appointment. All this is in the packet they'll give you. Any questions?"

"I can leave immediately, then?"

"It will take an hour or so to prepare the discharge papers. A nurse will come by when they're ready." It sounded like the doctor and his entourage bustled out and a thought struck Chandler.

"Do I have anything to wear?"

"Your clothes are still in evidence, sir, but I brought one of my flatmate's track suits. He's not quite as tall as you but it should fit." Chandler felt his stomach shift and perhaps it showed on his face, because Kent added, hastily, "It's clean sir, right out of the laundry." He put a soft bundle that smelled of dryer sheets on Chandler's lap. He didn't care for the smell but at least it was a clean one. "I can step out while you change."

"Thank you. You've been very thoughtful." He hoped that Kent was beaming his usual smile, because he liked to imagine it on his face. The door closed and he started to figure out how to change.


	6. Chapter 6

Miles finished texting Commander Anderson that Chandler was out of the hospital. He was surprised to get a quick response. "I'll be in London in three hours. I'll see Joe, then come to the station."

"Right, all, Anderson's coming in about three hours. Mansell, let's get a move on, those suppliers will be open by the time we get there. Riley, call down to Buchan, tell him to get up here so you won't be alone."

Mansell chuckled. "Right, if somebody attacks, Buchan'll bore them to death." Miles looked sharply at Mansell. Ordinarily, he'd probably have made the same comment or at least thought it, but now wasn't the time to be jabbing at one another. Or at least not hitting at the most sensitive spots.

The first supplier was special effects for concerts and light shows. The outside of the place was like any other factory, but the wall that confronted them when they walked in was anything but. The lights that swelled and slashed across it were brilliant colors in surreal patterns. Sometimes they looked like the paintstrokes of an Impressionist painting, other times, straight geometric lines that seemed to move in a pattern that was always on the edge of revealing itself. When the young man at the desk coughed lightly, Miles saw a tiny smirk on his face that suggested he and Mansell weren't the first to be distracted.

"How can I help you?"

"We're looking for records of anybody who bought a green 19-DX laser." He showed his ID and badge.

The young man started typing at a console. "I'm Michael, by the way. Rather a lot of them, I'm afraid, about 300 this year to date. Anywhere or here in London?"

"London to start with."

"All right, I'm printing out the full list. How far back?"

"Year to date to start with. Email the full list."

The lasers on the wall were reflected on Michael's dark skin and the glossy buttons on his shirt, Miles noticed while waiting. "Is that dangerous, working near lasers that strong?"

"Those? Those aren't dangerous. You wouldn't want to look right into them or hold your hand in the light for too long, that's why we have the glass in case somebody brings kids in, but they're not a risk. Unless you've got some kinds of epilepsy or are prone to seizures." He bent over and retrieved several sheets from a printer. "Here are the sales."

"Anybody who's a new customer?"

"Let's see." He spread the sheets on the counter and picked up a pen. "Galina Lightworlds, she's been around forever. Rudy, him, too. Only a few, actually, that I don't recognize." He starred them with the pen. "But let me call Simon, he'd know even better." He dialed an extension and said, "Simon, can you come out here? The police are asking about 19-DXes."

A door opened and an older man, wearing a concert t-shirt and jeans, came in. "Simon, these are the only customers I didn't recognize as longstanding ones. Do you know any of them? They're looking for new customers."

"Bai Chen, she's new in London, used to work in Beijing. Dmitri Pavagas, I don't know him. Google him for us, would you?" Michael typed and swung the monitor around so they could see. His web page advertised light shows for concerts. "He bought a variety along with the 19-DX, that'd make sense, he's probably starting up. Queen Darknight, oh, that's Poppy Belmont, she changes her name every few months." Simon looked genuinely dismayed. "I'm sorry we can't help you." He looked ready to say something else.

"Go on?"

"The thing is, these kinds of lasers aren't always thoroughly regulated and nobody tracks them once they're sold. If you go into a shop that has rave goods, you could probably buy one over the counter just by speaking the jargon. They're not so expensive that anybody would report a missing one to the police, either, and at some of the smaller concerts where there are a lot of people around backstage and security's lax, it wouldn't be hard to nick one."

Mansell spoke up. "We're not trying to get any shop or artist into trouble. If one was stolen or somebody didn't fill out paperwork on a sale, that's not what we're after. Can you think of anyplace where it'd be easy to get one?"

Miles saw the hesitation in Simon's eyes. "He's right. Somebody used one of those lasers on somebody's eyes." Both Simon and Michael looked sickened. "That's the person we're after, not some artist who doesn't keep track of their tools all the time or some shop that wants to let a new artist get a start."

"I'd try Adam's. It's a party supply place." Simon gave them an address and phone number. "They probably don't even open until noon or later."

"Thanks." Miles pocketed the paper. Since they had time to spend, he jerked his head at the display. "One of you design that?"

Simon smiled, "Mostly my work, with a few students helping the coding."

"I like it." He and Mansell left.

Mansell looked angry, fists clenched. "So maybe not so good a lead, if you can get them anywhere."

"Still, they're not just something you grab off the shelf. We've got the manufacturing supplier to check out, too."

"Yeah." Mansell relaxed a little. "What's going to happen to the team, d'you reckon?"

"Too early to tell."

"Just wondering if they're going to split us up." Mansell tried to sound casual about it but Miles could see through that. What he couldn't tell was whether Mansell wanted it or not. The only person on the team he really seemed to bond with was Riley. Things with him and Kent were still uneasy, though at least they weren't throwing punches any more. Buchan openly avoided Mansell and Miles didn't want to know what that was about until he had to.

"Is that what you want?" It couldn't hurt to ask.

"Probably for the best. We're the lame ducks in the station now. People are whispering."

Miles still had to defend his team and he also felt like he was defending Chandler, even if Mansell hadn't mentioned him. "Whispering what?"

Mansell shrugged. "We're vigilantes and if the case isn't strong enough for trial, you or the boss executes the suspect."

Miles laughed, angrily. "How'd we manage that with a whole vanload of people and gas canisters?"

"Hey, I'm not making them up, I'm just saying what I hear. Or Chandler's MI6 and it's a cover for assassinations. That, or that Buchan woke up some historical evil with one of his books or that one of the Ripper victims cursed us for not saving her, we'd never officially solve a case, just close them."

"Sounds like people watch too many horror movies. Or are idiots. If MI6 wanted somebody assassinated, why bring attention to it? Mugging gone wrong, heart attack, a domestic, those'd work a lot better."

"It's conspiracy theory, Skip, it doesn't need to make sense. It just needs people to believe it." Miles had never discussed his theory about Louise Iver with Mansell and wondered what'd happen if he did bring it up. It sounded like he'd be another skeptic, like Buchan and Chandler and in his mood, he didn't need Mansell telling him he was heading for senility. Plus telling Mansell anything confidential was the fastest way to get it in the station gossip.

"What do you believe, then?" Miles kept his voice light.

Mansell opened his mouth then shut it again. "I dunno. It's got to be just bad luck, right? Maybe some copycats, too. One criminal offs himself when he's found out, the next hears about it and gets inspired when he's caught. Why? What do you think?"

"Copycats and people who think they're great criminals don't want to get taken alive. Like that Brevik character, whining about microwaved meals, or James Holmes, you know, the Joker shooter, people see that he's sick and pathetic." That was what he wanted to believe, anyway.

It didn't mean that he didn't want to go and ask Louise Iver a few questions, if he thought there was a chance in hell that she'd answer them.


	7. Chapter 7

Commander Anderson knew how to put guilt and regrets behind. Fix what you can, learn what you can, and move on. Recognize what's due to luck, either good or bad, and accept that. He'd never really succeeded in teaching that to Joe. He himself was having a hard time putting into practice now. As he drove through London, he kept thinking, "If only he'd never set foot in Whitechapel." The place that should have been Joe's easy passageway to greater things had ended up a vicious snare. He knew it wasn't his fault. There was no way any reasonable person could have foreseen this. It didn't keep him from feeling that he had somehow failed Joe the same way that he had failed Joe's father.

He found a parking spot near Joe's flat and greeted the doorman with automatic courtesy. The doorman called and sent him up to the flat. Anderson was surprised to see young DC Kent waiting in the doorway and glad of his near-perfect memory for names and faces.

"How is he, Kent?" he asked, quietly.

"He's resting now, sir."

Anderson took another look at the young man, noticing the circles under his eyes. His skin was so pale they looked purple and blue rather than black. He patted Kent on the shoulder. "Joe's told me quite a bit about you."

"Really, sir?"

Joe hadn't exaggerated about how keen Kent was. Just one comment was enough to make Kent smile and stand up ramrod straight, at least for an instant. "Yes. He's very proud of your progress." A few seconds of pure joy crossed the boy's face. Well, hardly a boy, really, but he still had some boyishness left.

They stepped into the entry and Anderson removed his shoes and put his overnight bag on the floor.

"Kent?" Joe must have heard the door close. Anderson hated how uncertain Joe's voice sounded. He thought Joe would have been in bed, but instead he was in the sitting room, getting to his feet. He looked grey and drained and smelled very strongly of tiger balm. If anybody else had been in the room, he would have claimed that was why his eyes watered for a moment.

"I came as soon as I could, Joe." He put both his hands on Joe's shoulders and gripped them for a moment. "There were some very ugly doings that had to be stopped, first."

Joe nodded. "Of course." He said it as though he were confirming the obvious. Anderson expected it but was still relieved that Joe was entirely sensible about it. "Is it all settled?"

"It will be." If Kent weren't in the flat, he might have described the infiltration and where it led, but it was better to be discreet. Speaking of the devil, Kent reappeared.

"I put the kettle on, would either of you like tea?"

"Something stiffer for me," Joe answered. "You?"

"Do you still have that Brora, the 25 year?"

"Half a bottle." It hurt to see Joe turn in the direction of the liquor cabinet, then stop. It must have upset him as well, since his voice was very controlled as he said, "I'll take a glass, too."

Anderson didn't like testing Joe, but he wanted to know the risk of his turning too much to drink. He poured considerably less than usual in Joe's glass. If he drank it too quickly, or immediately asked for more, it would be a bad sign. Fortunately, Joe sipped at it with the respect that the whisky deserved.

"Is it painful?" He hoped some of Joe's exhausted demeanor was from something that could be fixed.

"Not anymore."

Anderson didn't bother with any platitudes about that being good. There was nothing good in the situation, just things that weren't as terrible as they could have been. "I hope you'll stay with us. You know Emmy and I would love to have you."

Joe smiled ruefully. "I don't think I'm at my best for visiting right now." He was tapping each of the buttons on his pajama top, top to bottom, then returning to the top.

"This wouldn't be just for a visit, Joe. You know the Oxshott house is far too big for just the two of us, now that Mike and Jenny have moved out and are settled. We'd be glad of the company, frankly."

"It's...it's more complicated than that, I'm afraid."

"Of course it's not just a matter of packing your toothbrush and slippers, there are things that would have to be arranged, but nothing that can't be worked out."

"It would be too easy." His hand paused for an instant but resumed the checking, or perhaps counting, whichever it was.

Anderson knew what Joe meant. "It's not surrendering, Joe. You're still a relatively young man. There are still things that you can do, worthwhile things. You once said that if you had to pick another career, you'd be a writer. You'd be a fine one. There are any number of topics that need better material than what's out there. You've even complained about some of them yourself, that none of the course materials on policing refugee communities go into enough depth." He saw the idea captured Joe's attention, could see him give it serious consideration.

Instead, Joe sighed lightly. "Perhaps. But...to me, it would feel like retreat, if not surrender. I might simply be pig-headed here, but I don't want to leave London, don't want to leave my flat. I'm afraid that without that independence, I'd become stagnant." He looked anxious. "Have I offended you? I'm truly grateful for the offer. I know you didn't make it lightly."

"No, you've not offended me in the least." Joe relaxed and Anderson felt relieved that his affection was clear enough in his voice. "I can understand, even if I do agree that part of it is pig-headedness." He chuckled to take any sting out of the words. "But I want you to know that the offer always stands, even if it is for a long visit."

"I would like that." Anderson wasn't too disappointed at Joe's refusal. Staying in his flat was a statement. Once he'd satisfied himself that he could do so, Joe would see the advantages of staying with him and Emily. Anderson hoped so, at least. He didn't want to plead his worry about what being blinded could do to Joe's mental stability. So far, the only manifestation he'd seen was tapping those damn buttons, which was harmless, but that didn't mean the next one would be.

Kent stepped into the room. "Sir? I can go get that fresh fruit now if you like."

"That would be good, thank you."

"What kinds?"

"Cripps pink apples if they have them, if not, Braeburns. Temple or Valencia oranges. If they have blueberries or blackberries, a pint each."

Kent repeated the request and Joe said, "My wallet is on the dresser."

"Right. I won't be more than a few minutes."

When Kent had left, Joe smiled, almost fully. "Kent's been my rock. He and Miles, really." He huffed a tiny laugh. "To think how Miles and I misjudged each other at first. We became a good team. All of us did, really."

Anderson noticed that he was beginning to fade. As if on cue, Joe yawned and his apology was caught in the middle of another. "Looks like you need some more sleep. Anything I can do to help you get settled in?" He'd expected an argument, or at least a denial, but instead Joe got up, cautiously.

"No, thank you, I'll be fine." He walked Joe into the bedroom and observed as he took off his watch and took his phone out of the pajama pocket, carefully aligning both with the radio, using the edge of his hand as the line. He aligned his slippers against the bedside rug, using his foot this time, pulled back the sheet and light blanket, and got into bed, lying on his side. Anderson decided that dropping a quick kiss on his forehead wouldn't seem as though he were infantilizing Joe, and did so. "I'll stay until Kent returns."

"Thank you."

While he waited for Kent to return, he made a cup of tea. He was just removing the tea bag when the door opened. Anderson met him in the hallway. "He's sleeping now."

Kent nodded, took the fruit into the kitchen, and put it away.

"I have to go to the station." Anderson wasn't looking forward to the meeting but knew that it wasn't fair to Joe's team to prolong things. "I should be back tonight."


	8. Chapter 8

Miles couldn't believe what he'd just heard the Commander say. "We're off the investigation? Who're you assigning it to, then, traffic?"

"It's going to Scotland Yard. They can be objective."

"We've all had strong feelings about every single case that we've handled and it never interfered. Bloody hell, when the Krays striped Kent, might have left him crippled for life, that didn't make us any less effective." Riley, Mansell, and even bloody Buchan hadn't spoken, but they had drawn nearer to him, obviously picking sides. "It got us working harder, if anything."

"It wasn't an easy decision. I would have liked to have more control over the case myself."

Miles gut told him that there was something the Commander wasn't saying. He'd seen the expression on dozens of faces during questioning. It was the "I'm telling the truth but not the whole thing" look. "So what's the _real_ reason, then?"

"Are you suggesting that I'm lying, Sargent?"

"Naw, I'm suggesting you're not telling the whole story." He decided to change tactics. "Look, we're his team, and we care about him, we deserve to know."

"Hear, hear," Riley said and Mansell added, "Sarge is right."

Anderson didn't look pleased but Miles was beyond playing polite politics. "We've been objective before when one of our own was hurt. _And_ we brought the Krays in _and_ cleaned up the station that time." He decided to let the "the station that you let get corrupted" go unspoken. "I'll admit that without the boss, we're not as good a team, because that's true. But don't tell me that Scotland Yard can do any better. They don't know Whitechapel like we do, they don't know the boss like we do, and they don't have Buchan." He paused for effect. "So how are they going to do better than us?"

Now Anderson looked downright angry, but that was fine. He'd probably say more than he would otherwise. "All right, this team has a reputation for never bringing cases to trial. I'm not as oblivious to rumor as you apparently think I am. Suppose that you investigate this case and yet again, the lead suspect dies. What do you think the rumor mill will make of that? So far, I've been able to explain it to _my_ higher-ups as simply being more likely when dealing with the kinds of madmen you've been chasing down. That there were very influential people who wanted to make sure the fake Krays wouldn't talk. That the accident with the van was the kind of thing that no human being could have anticipated. But each time I've explained it, the thinner it seems. If an investigation into what happened to my godson and _your_ DI were to turn out again with a dead suspect, I'd have to suspend all of you pending an investigation and I'd probably have to be suspended as well. You know how long those investigations last. Are you willing to be sidelined for two, three years?" His voice softened a little and Miles wished he could tell whether it was planned for effect or genuine. "I know all of you are dedicated to what you do, not just to drawing the salary. You'd be miserable and frankly, this station and Whitechapel need you to be on the job, not sitting around watching television while a team of internal investigators goes through every single step you've taken for the last four years."

Maybe it was the appeal to his vanity, but by the end of the speech, Miles thought Anderson was sincere. If you looked at the situation the way a careerist would, it did make sense. After all, appearances count. He vividly remembered Chandler's own speech on the subject. "Can you at least keep us informed?"

Anderson looked relieved. "Of course." He even smiled. "I've already made that a requirement." He left and Miles turned to Riley, Mansell, and Buchan. "I never said that we'd stop, mind. It'll just have to be a bit quieter."

"Thank God for that, Sarge, I thought you were a pod person for a minute, rolling over so quick." Mansell grinned and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Now, it's going to take some thinking. We can't just go around asking questions or the Yard will hear about it. Now we know the laser might not be traceable, but nothing to keep Kent from going to a few rave party stores, maybe a few raves, see how easy it'd be to nick one. Mansell and Riley, you keep looking into connections with any of our investigations. Buchan, keep with anything that would explain why they'd just blind him, nothing else."

"I have found a few precedents, though none of them are as immediate and direct as I'd like."

"All right, we can't discuss them here, just in case. I'm officially giving us all the afternoon off since we aren't on any other cases and we're going to the pub to unwind."

At the pub, he turned to Buchan. "What've you got?"

"In the 1970s, a teenage girl was celebrating her 17th birthday party. She was opening presents with her friends and family. There was a package that arrived by mail. She opened it and saw it was a pair of binoculars, along with a note that said 'You'll be surprised how close it brings things.' She wondered who had sent it, and while she fished for a note in the packaging, her father picked them up. He idly adjusted the focus, not even thinking about it. Two sharp needles came out of the eyepieces. If he had been holding them to his eyes, he would have been instantly blinded." He waited for that to sink in and continued. "The binoculars had been hand-carved out of wood, so meticulously that they would have deceived anybody. It must have taken weeks, if not months, to get everything exact."

"So who did it?" Mansell asked impatiently.

"Nobody knows. The crime remains unsolved."

"Not much help, then," Riley said, gloomily.

Buchan looked more stung than if he or Mansell had said it, but then, Riley'd always been more patient with him and more of an advocate. But Buchan still answered, "Not on the face of it, no, but it does have some similarities. Harming nothing but the eyes, the premeditation, and the anonymity."

"What else've you got?" Miles wanted to keep him moving.

"There are also literary precedents. In the Bible, Samson was blinded by the Philistines, though I don't see any parallels beyond the blinding. There's also the legend of Peeping Tom."

Mansell didn't hide a laugh. "You don't think the boss was staring at naked ladies riding horseback!"

Buchan smiled a pinched little smile. "I've no doubt that he'd do the gentlemanly thing. However, the story doubtless originates from old myths and legends about things being too sacred for profane eyes to see, and the gods or magical forces blinding the person who dared to look at them. If somebody believed that he did see something he wasn't permitted to see, that might explain why he was blinded but no further harm was done to him. If he saw it in the commission of his duties or entirely by accident, perhaps the person even saw that he didn't intend to commit a sacrilege, which is why they were relatively considerate towards him and ensured that he'd be found quickly."

Miles had to admit he liked it, or at least he liked it better than anything else they'd come up with so far. "That email they sent, it was from a burner phone they threw in the rubbish, and a Gmail address they made that day. What if there was some meaning in the email address, not just whatever they made up because all the good Gmail addresses are taken?"

Mansell grimaced. "I was hoping it meant something so I fiddled with it. It wasn't random, but it was the backward order of keyboard characters. First four numbers backward from zero, first four letters backward from P, first four backward from L. Not random, but I can't think how it'd mean anything other than that they could remember it again. Unless backward means something."

"You didn't answer it, did you?" Riley asked. Miles shook his head. "Maybe they picked something they could remember so they could correspond? What if we do?"

Buchan leaned forward. "Engage them in conversation to learn more about why, and find out who?"

Miles considered it a moment. "It couldn't hurt. His Nibs is safe enough now, and we're all on our guard. And if somebody asks why I emailed after we're off the case, well, I tried to do it earlier and somehow set the message to delay." He smirked. "Never could get me head around all these new gadgets. Now, what do I say?"

After some time debating, he typed in from Buchan's notes. "DI Chandler says he understands that he's done something wrong and that he's being punished, but he needs to know what he's done." It wasn't perfect, since it might be so obvious to the recipient that the question would seem too moronic to answer, but still, better than nothing. He left the phone on the table surface while they waited, but there was no response. Since waiting didn't make any sense, he dismissed them. "Get some rest." Mansell caught up with him outside the pub. "Yeah?"

"I'm good with DIY. I was thinking anything the boss needs done, I could do it, or supervise it. We don't want strangers in his place, not until this is over, and, well, he's got his ways. We don't want somebody getting stroppy and cutting corners or taking advantage."

"Good thinking. I'll tell him, he'll appreciate it."

Miles went back to Chandler's flat. He'd have to tell him and Kent about the team being officially off the investigation and discreetly get Kent onto checking raves. He couldn't tell Chandler, since Chandler wouldn't hide anything from the Commander, but persuading Kent shouldn't be hard. He found Chandler and Kent in the sitting room, deep in a conversation, leaning toward one another. "Don't mind me," he called as he hung his coat up.

"You smelled cigarettes. Was there any other smell?" Chandler bowed his head, concentrating. "Cologne? Any kind of food? Soap? Shampoo?" Kent's voice was soft and slow, reassuring, giving Chandler plenty of time between each question. "No, nothing else."

"Was there anything else you could hear? Breathing, could you hear that?" Chandler shook his head. "Any sound from their shoes?" He shook his head again.

"What about clothing? You said a dark jumper and gloves. What was the jumper knit like?"

"It, it was thick. Wait, it was a cable. Thick, raised lines and then thin lower ones, almost like an Aran Islands jumper."

"How thick were the thick lines?"

"About a centimeter, no, a bit bigger, a centimeter and a half. The thin ones were about three millimeters." Miles raised his eyebrows. Kent was good at this.

"Did you see a color?"

"The light was dim, but I got the impression of dark blue."

"All right, we'll put that down as possibly dark blue. What about the gloves?"

"Medium brown. The seam was thick, I could feel it when-" Miles saw tension knot Chandler's shoulders and face and was about to intervene when Kent said, "Hello, Sarge," in a decent imitation of a casual tone. Chandler leaned back a little.

"Boss, Kent. Got some news, we're off the case."

Kent stood up, abruptly. "Sarge, no!"

"I know, I know, but the Commander says Scotland Yard'd look more objective."

Chandler sighed. "I can understand the logic. I would have hoped, though..." Miles decided that was enough of an indication.

"Course, that doesn't keep us from helping, where we've got our own info." He very delicately emphasized the word "helping" and when Chandler nodded, a little absently, he caught Kent's eye.

"Absolutely, anything to help." Kent added the same very light emphasis. Good, he wasn't totally a Chandler clone yet. One was excellent, two would drive Miles bonkers.

"I was thinking a changing of the guard, if that's good for you, boss."

"Certainly, I'm sure Kent needs a break." Kent looked ready to protest but Miles followed up with, "Looks like you got some extra details, so have the uniform take you back to the station. Then go home and rest, lad, that's an order, there are some things you'll need to help with tomorrow."

He almost wanted to laugh at Kent's reluctance to leave. It reminded him of a sad dog, everything drooping, eyes reproachful. "All right. Good night, sir, Skip."

"Good night, Kent, and thank you again." Chandler turned his head as Kent left, as though he wanted to watch. Miles filed that away to wonder about, and sat down.

"How're you doing, boss? And don't try being evasive."

Chandler swallowed. "It hasn't really hit yet. The realization, I mean. The knowing that my sight is gone for good. I keep waiting for just a peek so I can remind myself of the order of what's in the bathroom cabinet. Or what's where on my phone screen. I understand in my conscious thoughts, but unconsciously, in habits, I keep expecting to be able to see." He shook his head. "I don't know if I want to be alone or dread being alone when it does hit."

Miles would have given almost anything to be able to make eye contact, to be able to reach his friend that way. It would even help if Chandler were the touchable kind, not even touchy-feely, for God's sake, but somebody whose hand he could put his own on. Well, at least one of his first impressions of Chandler was right, he was not an easy person. "You know, if you are alone when it does and you don't want to be, you know what to do."

"Yes." Miles could tell that Chandler's thoughts were far away, but he didn't know where. He let the silence continue, figuring Chandler would break it when he wanted to. After a moment, he spoke again, in a shaky voice. "Miles. I...I begged. At first, I tried to engage, to be rational, to treat the situation like a problem we could solve together. But after he took my eye, the first one, I pleaded. I wasn't even coherent, all I did was beg."

The self-loathing stunned Miles. He had to yank that out of Chandler's head, right now. "Course you begged. That _was_ the sensible thing to do, when talking calmly didn't work." Chandler's face was still lowered and turned away in shame. "All right, tell me this. If I'd been there instead of you, and I begged, would you think less of me?"

"God, no!"

Miles could tell he was sincere and he pressed on. "Would you think it made me a coward?"

"No, of course not!"

"So then you think you're made of better stuff than me? Got lower standards for me?"

"Miles, what are you-" Miles almost laughed when he saw Chandler start to get it. He figured it was worth emphasizing, just in case. "What about young Kent, would you look down on him? Riley? Buchan? Mansell?"

"You've made your point," Chandler said, with a hint of his customary dryness.

"You ain't Superman, you know. Sometimes you need a little reminding, that's all."


	9. Chapter 9

Chandler felt carefully for the bottle of scotch. The morning had sliced away his patience and self-control, one steady knifestroke after another. He was used to learning things and skills quickly and this slow process of having to relearn the most basic things was excruciating. He had made so many concessions already, but it wasn't enough. He'd given up his straight razor for an electric one but couldn't even manage that. He'd run his hand over his face and find yet another spot he'd missed. He finally gave up and started from the beginning, then repeated it again and followed that with a third repetition. On top of that, when he heard Kent come by the bathroom, doubtless to check on him, he snapped that he wasn't aware that shaving is a spectator sport.

After that, he'd tried to make tea. He'd lost track of the time and took the bag out too early, so it tasted like water with a few leaves of grass in it. He'd first burned the toast and then took the next slices out when they were barely warmed. He was far too tempted to ask Kent to take over but he knew he had to learn how to cope.

Then the woman from the hospital came to discuss his options. She'd assumed that Kent was his boyfriend and he could sense her polite disbelief when he had corrected her that Kent was his DC. At the same time, Kent said that he was his friend. "And DC," he'd immediately added, sounding awkward and making it worse.

She had explained that there was about a two-year waiting list for a guide dog. Chandler liked dogs, he truly did, but the idea of living with one was too much. Dog hair everywhere, having to clean up after it, and the state of dependence, he felt his control start to slip, and he said that it was simply impossible.

When she gave him a stick and taught him the basics of using it, he thought that he'd finally been able to master something easily. Going outside was a different story. He had to learn how to interpret the size and shape of things and convert them in his mind to the real objects. Not to mention that at first, he had struck other pedestrians with the stick. Their polite responses of "never mind" and "oh, it's nothing" or breezy, "no problem," reminded him that to them, he was somebody to accommodate, to make allowances for. Tiny and understandable accommodations and allowances, but still, he was used to being the one who offered them, not the one to receive them.

At least she had an explanation for his mental exhaustion. His brain was going through a tremendous amount of recalibration as it stopped expecting visual input and tried to derive similar information from his other senses. The adult brain changes more fully and quickly than people give it credit for, but it tires more easily than a child's or juvenile's brain. So if he needed to sleep more than usual or found his thought processes dragging, he shouldn't worry. Knowing that was some comfort.

After she left, he felt an intense need for a drink. It would stop the roaring of his brain and nerves. He'd worry some other time about whether noon was too early, it was now that he needed a moment of calm.

He offered one to Kent, who answered, "No, thanks, sir," in a tone that sounded like he was being prim, but Chandler couldn't tell for certain. But as he felt the scotch begin its work, he considered that he might have been unjust. He took a deep breath and asked Kent to put some music on.

"What did you have in mind, sir?"

He thought a moment. Something soothing, otherworldly. "There should be a CD of William Byrd. It's alphabetical." Kent found the disk after a few minutes looking and Chandler let the early music calm him even more. The voices moved against each other in perfect order, effortlessly, each harmony fitting exactly with the one before and the one after. The lowest voices grounded the piece and the highest floated above. It took him back to the concerts he had attended in college, the music reverberating in the stone chapels.

The tranquility was broken when Kent's stomach rumbled. "Oh, sorry, sir!" Chandler imagined that Kent was probably blushing.

"I think that's your signal for lunch. Go ahead and do what you like, I'm not hungry."

"Are you sure, sir? You barely ate anything for breakfast." He could tell that Kent was moving closer to him.

"I said I'm not hungry. Perhaps later." He hoped that his tone conveyed that the matter was closed.

"I can make something for both of us, to have ready for when you are hungry." Kent's tone was so careful, so infuriatingly concerned, so full of sympathy that Chandler could feel his temper taking over.

"For God's sake, Kent! You're my DC, not my nursemaid! And I don't need your pity," he finished, grinding the last words out through gritted teeth. Chandler almost exulted for a moment in Kent's shocked silence, before his rational mind regained control. He was ready to apologize when Kent started speaking, almost grimly.

"You don't _have_ my pity. You have my respect and even though you don't want it, you have my love." He rushed through the last part of the sentence so quickly that Chandler wasn't even sure he'd understood it at first.

If he'd been standing, he would have had to sit. This had thrown things in an entirely new direction. He took a deep breath and instinctively fished in his pocket for more tiger balm. "What do you mean, 'even if you don't want it?'" He fumbled for the words. "You are...you're very dear to me, Kent, even if it's not something I've ever said, and I'm very glad of your friendship. It's meant the world to me, these last few days."

Kent's voice was suddenly gritty. "That's not what I meant. I'm in love with you. I have been for years. I tried to fight it, I knew that you'd tell me it's inappropriate. But I've got no choice. If I'm around you, I love you."

Chandler had no idea what to say or do. He bowed his head on top of his folded hands. The situation was beyond anything he'd expected, far beyond anything he was competent to handle. He must have delayed too long because, his voice hoarse with tears, Kent pleaded, "Say something, please, say something. Even if it's that you're disgusted."

"No, no! I'm...I'm not disgusted, I'm, well, confused." The words seemed to come easier now. "I'm not quite able to believe this. You've known me for years, you've seen every single one of my flaws. But you still say that you're in love with me. I don't understand. _How_?"

He heard Kent draw a ragged breath. "How? I am. That's all there is to it."

"You've seen what a difficult person I am. I don't have any hope of being able to change. I can adapt, to some extent, but not change. Even beyond that...there's what you don't know about me." He wished he could believe in a God, some force that could help him become the kind of person who could receive an offer of love with open hands and joy in his heart. He didn't want to do what he was doing. "I don't even have a normal sexual drive, I'm almost asexual. You don't deserve that, you deserve somebody who can return your feelings, who can feel sexual desire for you, somebody who isn't certain to make you unhappy."

"Is that what you really feel, or are you trying to find reasons to turn me down?"

"No, never that. It's what's best for both of us." He could hear Kent trying to control his tears and would have given almost anything not to have caused that kind of unhappiness.

Kent spoke again, after a few soft gulps. "If you were only thinking of what you want, what would you say then?"

He had to be resolved. "I can't separate the two. Knowing that I would make you unhappy means that I can't want it. That I mustn't." He wished he could sound more certain, or better, that he could be more certain.

"Forget about making me unhappy! Haven't you realized that I'm miserable anyway? But even if it makes me unhappier, I want to try." Kent's voice was firmer now. "All right, then, answer this honestly. If you can look in your heart and say no, I'll accept it. I'll get out of your life." Chandler felt his stomach clench at that thought. A life, especially this diminished life, without Kent? He had to concentrate to listen again. "If you thought you were perfect, the perfect match, the person who gets you is the luckiest person in the world, what would you say to me?"

The thought was so ludicrous, it almost made him laugh, even in this turmoil. "That's simply not the case. No matter how you see me."

"Please, just answer. Tell me, that's all I'm asking."

Chandler knew how he should answer. He should be gentle but firm and call the conversation to a close. But his self-control was dissolving and he felt like he had fought too many rounds, couldn't stop himself from collapsing to the ground. In barely a whisper, as if he didn't want even himself to hear, he breathed, "Yes. Yes, I'd want you." The moment the words were out, he knew he should regret the weakness but he couldn't. He was like a drowning man, who instead of trying to swim to shore, let the waves carry him wherever they wished.

"Then let me decide to take the risk." Kent wasn't touching him, might not even be that near him, but he could sense Kent's closeness as much as if he were. Chandler still knew what he should do, but it was beyond him. "Then let me be with you," Kent whispered. Chandler reached out a hand, hoping he was reaching in Kent's direction, and felt Kent take it in his and brush his lips over his knuckles.


	10. Chapter 10

Chandler woke up with two successive shocks. The first was the increasingly familiar and devastating realization of his blindness but the second was new, another presence in his bed. It took a moment to remember that conversation with Kent and that they had, at Kent's request, slept together. Nothing other than sleep, preceded by a few touches that weren't even embraces, Kent's kiss on his cheek, and murmured good nights. During the night, Kent had moved so his head was pressed against Chandler's shoulder and his arm was draped across Chandler's chest.

He still had so many reservations. Chandler was always reluctant to start anything that he wasn't certain that he could eventually master. Relationships, especially romantic ones, were exactly the opposite of that. He reminded, himself, though, that he had committed to this and owed it his best efforts. Fundamentally, it was merely establishing the correct questions and finding the correct answers. Even if both poets and psychologists would both agree that "merely" was hardly the most accurate term and that "correct" was even more ambiguous.

The first question that needed an immediate answer was how the routine of getting up would change. He concentrated on the surprisingly soothing pressure of Kent's arm and how it accentuated the rise and fall of his own breaths. New couples were surely expected to laze their first morning together, weren't they? He tentatively put his hand on Kent's and impulsively enlaced their fingers. That was remarkably pleasant. Kent's head stirred a little against his shoulder but he didn't move his arm or hand at all. This intimacy was quiet and undemanding, peaceful, even.

Or at least it was peaceful until Kent began to stir. Chandler's transition from sleep to waking was a smooth, gradual slope, while Kent's was an obstacle course. His head tried to burrow into Chandler's shoulder, he emitted a few sounds between mutters, grunts, and sighs, and then seemed to sit up.

"Oh, uhm, morning, uhm." Kent didn't sound as though he was ready for a full conversation, or even a partial one.

"Good morning, sleepy head." He couldn't help but tease him a little.

"Last night really happened, then." Kent's voice started to rise towards the end, as though the evidence of their sharing a bed wasn't convincing enough.

"Yes. Yes, it certainly did." It was really quite satisfying to say so. He turned his head, hoping to find Kent's cheek or forehead to kiss, but then remembered that he hadn't yet brushed his teeth. The thought of a kiss from a mouth still stinking of the night's accumulations got him out of the bed in a rush and he had to stop twice to recalculate the position of the bathroom door. He paused a moment at the sink after he had brushed and flossed his teeth and rinsed with mouthwash. This was another abnormality, he knew. If Kent took his unceremonious exit as a rejection, things would not go very well for them.

He returned to the bedroom, softly calling, "Kent?" There was a garbled response that he immediately identified as the sound of somebody trying to talk with a toothbrush in their mouth. Kent tried again, this time with a more articulate, "Joe? You all right?"

"Fine. I just didn't want you to think-" Chandler paused, uncertain of the wording, but Kent answered, easily, "Anything more than you really wanted to brush your teeth?"

"Exactly." He sighed a little in relief. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Almost nine." Kent sounded a little uncertain when he added. "The Sarge is coming around soon, with some paperwork for me to do 'so I don't forget all the fun.' What do you want to tell him?"

"Is there anything that wouldn't get a smug and probably embarrassing response?"

Kent chuckled, "I doubt it. D'you want to shower first? I can brew some tea in the meantime."

Under the hot water, Chandler tried not to think of what Miles might say about this new relationship. He suspected he was going to have to defend his earlier assertion that he wasn't gay. Strictly speaking, it was true, he was bisexual with a minimal sex drive, but Miles would call him out on the prevarication. Despite all that, he knew that Miles cared deeply about him and was fond of Kent, in his own way. More than that, if the necessity ever arose, he'd be a steadfast ally.

When he was finished, Kent showered in the guest room, from the sound of it. How exactly was that going to work, would they have separate rooms, or share? He realized he was assuming that Kent would move in with him. Would he want to do that? Chandler didn't want to leave his flat, he knew the layout and where everything was, he'd spent considerable time and effort getting things exactly as he wanted them, but what if Kent disliked it? Chandler found it comfortably uncluttered, but Kent might find it too sterile. Somehow he imagined Kent having posters on the wall in his flat, perhaps a few scattered quirky ornaments or gifts that he kept around as reminders of the people who had given them to him.

They'd have to resolve all that. Or was it premature to bring it up? Chandler wasn't fond of uncertainty but Kent might prefer leaving matters open-ended. After all, they hadn't even exchanged open-mouthed kisses. His shirt buttons might be uneven, he realized, and he untucked the shirt to check. The fabric was even on both sides, and he tucked it back in, but then wasn't sure that he'd checked accurately. Then he found he couldn't stop and was tempted to take the shirt off, forcing himself to stop, but when he gripped the top button, he had to check the collar. He heard Kent leave the bathroom and enter the kitchen. Even that wasn't enough to let him stop. After a moment's pause, all Kent said was a perfectly ordinary, "D'you fancy scrambled eggs for breakfast?"

"Yes, that sounds fine." He was surprised he was able to answer.

"More tea?"

"Yes, please." If he could break the pattern with just one hand, reach for the kettle or the tea, that would probably be enough to set the other hand free. He sensed Kent come closer, into his space, and was about to bark a warning that physically stopping him wouldn't work, but Kent did nothing other than give his shoulder a squeeze and kiss his cheek. He wasn't able to stop enough to return the gesture, even the peck on the cheek, but it calmed him a little. The blessedly ordinary sounds of the refrigerator opening, eggs being cracked into a bowl, the sound of the kettle, they were calming, too. He told himself he'd stop after 10, well, 20 more repetitions and started counting down. That sometimes worked. At seven, he didn't think he was ready to stop at zero, and then thought of something. "Kent?" he asked, carefully.

"Hmm?"

"When I count down to four, will you grip my left wrist? Hold on tight, but please don't try to stop it moving."

"Of course." He could imagine Kent's face, intensely fixed on his task.

"Six...five...four." He felt Kent's fingers grip, hard. "Three...harder, please, enough to hurt..." He drew a deep breath as Kent's grip became painful. "Two...one." He moved his hands to his sides and was flooded with relief. He was able to keep his hands still, nothing was forcing them to return to the shirt hem. "That worked!" Maybe his hopes of controlling his compulsions hadn't ended when Morgan's rubber band broke off in his hand.

"I...I'm not ready to explain yet. Perhaps because I'm not even sure myself of what's going on when I can't stop something."

"That's all right." Kent's tone was sincere, even if there was a hint of pain in it. He stepped away, but it sounded like he was only returning to the eggs on the stove. The kettle sounded like it was coming to a boil and Chandler carefully poured the tea. He preferred making his own green tea with near-boiling rather than boiling water but didn't want to fuss over it. He wanted to make sure that he had finished eating before Miles' arrival. Eating was sometimes a messy business, especially if it was something that could easily slide off a fork. Fortunately, he had some bowls so broad and shallow that they could serve as plates, so he wasn't accidentally pushing food off the edge when he misjudged a distance, but it was still deeply humiliating, even though he knew nobody was judging him for it.

They finished in good time for Miles' arrival. Kent let him in and Chandler could hear Miles' suspicious, "Well, you're looking like you finally slept. Wait, are you _blushing_?"

"Uhm, we should explain."

"We? Don't tell me, you didn't?"

Chandler hurried to the hallway as best he could, he truly didn't want to hear what else Miles might say thinking that he couldn't hear. He also, to his surprise, actually wanted to share what felt like the potential for happiness that had opened up for him.

"Miles."

"Boss, is that a smile trying to get out?"

Chandler tried for a dry tone. "I believe you came with some administrative updates and paperwork for Kent to fill out?" He could tell Kent had come to stand next to him, although they weren't touching.

As he suspected, Miles wasn't going to let the matter drop. "Right. I want the details now."

"You aren't going to get _details_. At least not at a certain level." Chandler was actually enjoying this. "Kent and I had a discussion last evening and are now a couple."

"I bloody knew it! Hah, they said I was losing my money putting it on the under."

"Putting money on the under? Exactly who was betting on this?" Chandler wanted names. Not that he expected to do anything but it was a matter of principle.

"Who wasn't?" Miles' voice sobered. "I'm glad for you. You deserve some happiness." His usual tone returned. "Especially for earning me about 60 quid."

"How many people were betting?" At least he'd find out the scope of this betting pool.

"Enough to earn me 60 quid," Miles answered, unyielding.

Chandler gave up with one last grumble. "Delighted to hear that our personal lives enriched you."

"Right, then, I've got the paperwork for Kent to start on." Chandler considered telling Miles that he knew he was changing the subject, but Miles would probably just answer that he knew. "But first, the Commander says that none of the uniforms or undercovers have seen anybody watching anybody on the team, nobody hanging around who shouldn't be. If you think it's safe, we can take the uniforms off the job. He still does want somebody on the team with you, as long as they're doing something else at the same time. Like paperwork." Miles cleared his throat. "I won't mind, Kent, if you take that into the next room and get started."

Kent chuckled, "I'd say I take the hint but that wasn't even a hint, Sarge."

Chandler heard Miles move closer to him and lower his voice. "If you think it's better to have the undercovers still watching, the Commander would do it, I'm sure."

Chandler was equally sure. Aside from the personal relationship and affection, the Commander knew what kind of a PR disaster it would be if a DI blinded in the course of duty was attacked again. If he judged it safe, it was safe. "No, if they've seen nothing and nobody on the team has picked up on being watched, I'm sure it won't be necessary. It's quite possible that the attack on me was all that they wanted." Miles had been good about communicating each lead to him as well as what seemed like the inevitable petering out. Kent had found it remarkably easy to get backstage at a rave and grab a laser, and the party store Adam's had had a burglary lately. The haul included all kinds of electronics goods including lasers. Chandler honestly felt disappointed more as a policeman than as the victim of the attack.

"That's what my gut is telling me, any rate." Miles paused and then asked, "So you and Kent. Did you finally notice that the lad's been pining after you or had you noticed it before and finally decided to do something about it?"

Chandler could have reproved him but it wouldn't have had the least effect. Miles didn't let go of things easily. "Neither, I'm afraid. He pointed it out."

"'Pointed it out.' You make it sound like a piece of evidence at a scene."

"To be honest, I had wondered if his feelings were involved earlier, but it seemed so unlikely to be more than hero worship. I'm not entirely oblivious to matters of the heart."

"But you'd said you're not gay."

"That didn't stop you betting," Chandler reminded him. "I'm bisexual, I suppose."

"Suppose? You still don't know?" Now Miles sounded concerned.

"It's complicated." He didn't even object that much to Miles knowing, he just didn't want to discuss it. "But I've been honest with Kent about everything and he still wants to be with me, so there you have it."

"Well, you both seem lighter now that you're together. That's the important thing." Miles' tone suggested he was about done. "I have to be on my way."

"I'll walk you to the door." Kent must have heard them at the door since he came to join them. "Bye, sarge."

"Remember, now, if you break his heart, I'm coming after you, and that goes for you both," he said as he left. Miles' tone was joking but Chandler suspected it was a real warning to both of them that things could go wrong and they needed to be careful with each other.

"Well, that was easier than I'd expected."

"He might have more saved for later," Kent warned. "There's Riley and Mansell, too."


	11. Chapter 11

Kent felt almost peaceful, working on the paperwork Miles had brought. He noticed that it included what looked like all of Miles' recent expense reports, but then Miles was notorious for handing the receipts to somebody else and telling them to deal with it, so he wasn't even surprised.

Once that was done, there were tasks from the cold cases they worked on when not assigned to current cases. The technology people were experimenting with a system that went through old crime reports and checked them against more recent ones, to see if there were enough similarities to suggest a link.

Some of the suggested links were proof that computers still lacked common sense. One suggested a link a murder committed during a jewelry shop theft and a woman named Gemma Pearlman, based solely on her name. Another tried to pin a series of increasingly violent purse snatchings on a pensioner who used a walker and seemed unable to stop himself from stealing the left shoe from a particular store's displays. The link was that a few of the purses and shoes were by the same maker. Kent had actually been the arresting officer back in his uniform days and when giving testimony, had deliberately emphasized that the man didn't resist arrest or try to deny anything. He barely even tried to hide the shoes as he left the store.

Still, the task wasn't pointless. There were a few suggestions based on tiny amounts of data that wouldn't necessarily have stood out to a human investigator, but might be connected. One found a slightly unusual brand of beer bottle near three different rape scenes a year apart each. The beer was too common to convince a jury by itself, but the rapes all falling on the same day, the victims all brunettes, and the same bottle nearby each scene suggested more than the individual factors. The system also found that four recent cases of arson, the most recent of which killed two people, might be linked by all the property owners having degrees from the London School of Economics. He dug a bit more in the database and found that all the owners had graduated the same year. Again, could be pure coincidence, but maybe not.

It was the same ugly stuff of greed, entitlement, hatred, and pointless malice as always, whether he was reading it here or seeing it at a crime scene, but now Kent felt like a different man. Perhaps that wasn't quite the right way to put it, but a man warmed by springtime rather than shivering through winter. Every time he raised his eyes to look at Joe, _his_ Joe now, he felt loved instead of held at a distance. It hurt, badly, to see frustration or just plain unhappiness on Joe's face as he struggled to do something that had been easy and unthinking. But it also felt indescribably good to see a smile, even a hint of one, when Joe spoke to him. Joe even laughed at the Gemma Pearlman link.

He was relieved that they made the transition from boss and subordinate fairly easily. Of course, it didn't hurt that in his mind, he'd had countless talks with Joe in which he didn't call him "sir." Joe still called him Kent but he didn't mind that, since half his mates called him that. It felt real when Joe made him a cup of tea and carefully brought it to where Kent was sitting. He knew that for Joe it was also practice in the kitchen and in carrying something that could spill, but it was also a gesture of caring.

Buchan leafed through another file of crimes that had resulted in blinding. One of them referenced an attack in Iran in which one man blinded another. The victim, allowed to use the "eye for an eye" form of justice, demanded that his attacker be blinded. It reminded Buchan of Gandhi's saying that an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. He shook his head sadly and then went back to the idea. Joe had never blinded anybody, deliberately or by accident, of course, but could any of his actions be perceived as blind?

While it wasn't Joe who left her unprotected, could any of Morgan's relations or closest friends blame him for not seeing the risk and decided that blinding him was an equivalent punishment? Or had the survivors of other victims had the same thought?

Miles had come into the archives while he was caught up in this possibility. "You owe me five quid."

"For what? I don't remember-"

Miles cut him off. "Kent and the boss. As of last night. Since I took the October 15 and under, you owe me a fiver."

"Are you certain?" He had been certain that Joe wasn't very interested in pursuing romantic relationships. He tended to look at attractive people with appreciation, but the same kind of appreciation he gave to a pleasing piece of art or well-tailored suit.

"Saw it with my own eyes and heard it right from their mouths."

"Well, in that case, I must honor the debt." He reached for his wallet and hesitated. "I know we all bet on the odds, but do you think it's a good thing? For them?" He hoped Miles wouldn't laugh off his concerns.

"I hope so." Fortunately, Miles seemed to understand him. "At first I thought the boss had plenty of friends and probably a glamorous girlfriend, then I saw it was nothing but connections. Took me a while to see how isolated he is and how reluctant he is to let anybody in." He half-laughed. "It'd take somebody as stubborn and idiotic as Kent to keep waiting until he opened up."

"That's not as reassuring as I'd hoped for." Especially because Buchan agreed.

"They could damage one another a hell of a lot, but the boss is one of the most ethical blokes I know, and Kent'd happily die for him. So they've got a chance, maybe better than most."

"One can certainly hope so." Miles turned to go and Buchan remembered his earlier train of thought. "I had another idea. About the blinding, I mean. What if it was meant as some kind of punishment for his being perceived as acting blindly? For a decision somebody thought was blindly reckless or for his having been blind to some kind of clue? Or something that's in the spirit if not the letter of an eye for an eye?"

"Like what?"

"That's rather the problem. In our position, we know that it's his perception that's solved so many horrendous crimes and saved lives. While Morgan Lamb's death was horrible, we know that it was the uniforms who left her alone and vulnerable. But are there any cases where an outsider would see him as the one who missed something or put a loved one at risk?"

"Can't hurt to give it a try." Miles sounded grudging but then he often did, especially about Buchan's ideas. On the other hand, he had seriously listened to Buchan's opinions about the possibility of some evil force in Whitechapel, even if he discounted them. "C'mon up, then, time for lunch and an unofficial chat. I'll call Kent, put him on speaker. The boss is still struggling a little with the idea that we're not leaving it to the Yard."

There were even a few things that got under Mansell's skin, stayed with him once the case was closed. The poor bitches the Ripper copycat sliced up. The way the fake Krays pushed Fitzgerald into a corner so the only way out was a noose in the shed. The shed meant it wasn't even a decent drop and a quick broken neck. And now, Chandler was blinded. He never minded seeing His High and Mightiness taken down a peg or two, but picking out a laser, to make it neat and tidy, and blinding somebody, that gave him the creeps.

Then there was the fact that Erica got to him. He'd thought she was going to be just another shag, but it went way beyond that. What made him forgive Kent for lying was knowing that yeah, there was some spite in there, but he was mostly doing it for Erica. Kent figured from his history that it was inevitable and he didn't want Erica hurt. Erica was as tough as nails and proud of it, but she still had a heart and hearts can get broken. So he couldn't hold a grudge, at least not after he'd bloodied Kent's face.

Sure, Mansell liked playing one-upmanship games for a lot of reasons, not least of which he was damn good at them. Reminding the Sarge that he was heading right toward old and toothless, making Buchan make a fool of himself with Riley, and yeah, at first, strutting right past Kent to shag his sister. But it wasn't like he wanted them to be unhappy, he just wanted a laugh or two. But that Erica's happiness mattered to him, Kent's happiness was along for the ride. With her twin so unhappy, Erica couldn't be entirely happy.

When he was over at Chandler's place, putting up grab bars in the shower, changing the oven knobs so they'd click at the different levels, lowering the microwave to make it easier to reach into without being able to see, he'd seriously considered telling Chandler to get the stick _and_ his head out of his arse, waiting for Kent to get back, then pressing some rubbers into their grateful hands and making his exit. Maybe they wouldn't even need the rubbers, since they both gave blood every single drive. But still, it was tidier so probably Chandler was all for rubbers. Unless underneath it all he was one kinky devil. You never know with the repressed types. And that was where he was stopping this train of thought, thank you very much.

Back to the case. "So how would we figure that out, who might _think_ that the boss was blind about something? I suppose we can get the family files for victims, search their social media, see if anybody mentions police or people in general being blind." It didn't sound that likely, but then crazier things had happened.

"We did go through all the threats," Riley said, slowly. "But we were just looking for threats about him specifically or threats to blind somebody. We can go through again and look for references to seeing in general. Things like 'you couldn't see what was in front of you.'"

"Perhaps religious threats, too," Buchan added. "Since the origin of the phrase is Biblical-"

"Won't do us much good if we don't have copies of the threats. We can't quite go and ask for another look at them," Miles interrupted.

Buchan preened. "Fortunately, we're not in that predicament. I created copies of all of the threats, to add to the archives. Perhaps it was premature to do so before they were officially entered, but since there's some uncertainty about the future of the archives, I thought it best."

Riley patted him on the arm when he said that about the future of the archives, but Mansell wasn't one for speeches, or at least ones by Buchan. "You got them?"

"Yes, I can make copies for the team. Quite covertly, of course." He seemed to cheer up a bit at that and Mansell wondered if he fancied himself James Bond, too. Not that Mansell would refuse if somebody promised him all the gear and cars and cool suits that were never too stuffed shirt. Erica would look really good in some of the things the women wore, too.

"Let's take a closer look at the victims' families. Maybe not the first victims, but the ones after them." Riley was getting into this.

Kent's voice wasn't audible through the speaker, so Miles grabbed the phone and held it to his ear, then said, "Kent said let's look at the killers' families, too. Maybe some of them got a hold of the rumor that Chandler was executing them. Or that he should have been able to catch them alive." He looked around the table. "Right, then. Mansell, you and Riley take the threats. Check for hidden messages and anything about seeing things. Buchan, you look for religious references. Me and Kent'll take the killers' families."


	12. Chapter 12

Joe had prepared Anderson with a phone call, but they had barely started the conversation before Anderson got an alert about terrorist attack rumor and had to drop the matter. But Joe and Kent must have started the paperwork, since there was an official notice of personal fraternization in his email inbox by the time he was ready to resume that discussion. Since his other work for the day was finished, he called Joe back and said that he'd come to talk in person, since it had been a few days since had last visited.

The notification was truly only a technicality. Joe was still on medical leave, but that was because an official release for disability took quite some time to go through the system. Anderson had every hope of retaining him in some capacity, but there was no need for Kent to be under his supervision.

He carefully examined Joe's face when he opened the door to his flat. He looked somewhat more peaceful than he had before. "How are you, Joe?"

"I'm better than I expected to be. I'm coming to terms with it, as much as I can. Trying to savor the small victories." He smiled at the last sentence and Anderson didn't like the sour undertones. He could understand them, though. How could a man not be embittered at having to consider making a basic meal for himself or managing to shave a major accomplishment?

He limited himself to clasping Joe's shoulder and saying, "Good." He looked about briefly and thought they were alone, but wanted to confirm it. "Kent's not here, then?" They'd agreed that Joe didn't need any further protection, so Miles and Kent were back at the station during the normal workday.

"No, but he should be here shortly."

"Good, just enough time for us to talk, then." Joe looked anxious for a moment and so he was quick to say, "Just the usual 'is he being good to you' questions, the things one doesn't ask right in front of a partner." He saw Joe relax a bit more. "Perhaps questions to ask over a drink?"

"Certainly." The level in the bottles hadn't changed much since he last visited. Another good sign. "Scotch for me."

"Cheers."

"Cheers. To answer your question, yes, he's very good to me." Joe's small, tender smile didn't erase the signs of strain on his face, but softened them. As much as Anderson would have liked to see a carefree grin, he'd happily take what he saw, a sense of ease and awareness of being loved.

"He seems to be a good, loyal man. I'm glad. You deserve that in your life."

Joe's smile broadened in what looked like relief. Had Joe really expected that he'd disapprove, even condemn him? Well, bringing the question up would embarrass them both, best to let it go. "So we have your godfatherly blessing, then?"

"Yes, that you do." He let the moment linger and then moved on to business, before Kent arrived. "Now, about your team. I'd like your unofficial advice. I've spoken to Sargent Miles and asked his opinion about a new DI for the team, whether he'd take the role or another person might. His response was that if I could find somebody who would keep all of the management crap out of his way and still be a half-decent detective, he'd appreciate it. He wouldn't expect anyone as good as you, he made it clear, but he'd prefer somebody who wasn't entirely useless."

Chandler actually laughed. "If you're looking for recommendations, I'd think DI Singh would be a good match. She's excelled on the Gang Activity team and is a good criminologist as well as a detective. Her kind of pragmatism would work well with the team."

"She's one of my top three. There's also DI Hitchens, he gets good results and I'd like to move him to murder, but he surrounds himself with people like himself. I don't see that working with your team and those kinds of cases. I know they don't always pull together as they should, but when they do, they make their differences work better than a team of clones. What would you think of Sargent Abukar?"

"He and Miles are old friends, but I don't think either of them would let that interfere."

"But?" He could tell Joe had reservations and wanted to see if they were the same as his.

"But he and Miles are perhaps too similar to be complementary. It would almost be like a team with two Miles. For succession planning, I'd rather spread the detectives with the lifelong knowledge of the district and people. Miles is teaching Riley, Mansell, and Kent and I'm not positive that Abukar would contribute as much to succession planning if he were on the same team."

"Agreed. Is there anybody else you'd suggest I consider?"

"I did meet an excellent Inspector-Sargent team in Oxford a while ago, but I think it would be impossible to lure either of them away."

"All right, then. I'll ask all three to interview, but it's Singh's to lose."

He would have liked to make sure that Joe wasn't just being stoic when he discussed his successor so calmly, but he heard four knocks at the door. He was about to get it when Joe said, "That's Kent. He knocks like that so I know it's him." The door opened and as Kent took off his shoes and hung up his helmet and jacket, Joe called, "In the living room. The Commander is here."

Anderson would have preferred to see Kent's response to seeing him unexpectedly, just to help solidify his impression of the young man, but too late. Kent's expression was a trifle wary but mostly open and forthright. When Anderson got up and offered his hand, he shook it firmly.

"Kent."

"Sir."

He decided to lighten the moment and test Kent a little more. "I understand you're the man I should share Joe's baby pictures with."

Kent chuckled and the wariness left his expression. Good, he was only worried about disapproval. In the meanwhile, Joe asked, firmly, "Please don't."

He sat down again and Kent sat next to Joe, touching his hand. Joe smiled a welcome at the gesture and Kent all but glowed. "Some of them _are_ charming," Anderson teased. "That one of you with your Christmas train set, for example."

"Perhaps we can save that for a special occasion," Kent answered, matching the light tone but still looking at Joe with deep tenderness. Anderson decided that he'd seen enough to be satisfied and made his excuses.

Louise Iver thanked the young man at the counter for the coffee. The shop was nearly empty so she was able to drop more hints than usual to the server about how girls don't appreciate the value of a good man and how if a man shows a girl some attention, she should be grateful. If the young woman had been there, instead, she would have reassured her that his crush was clearly harmless, practically puppy love. The easiest way to get him over his crush would be to go on a date with him, so that he'd see there was no chemistry between them. If Louise had played all her cards right, the young man would rape his co-worker not long after she turned down a second date. Not one of her great triumphs but even small accomplishments are worth something, especially when they take no more effort than a few words of encouragement.

She was rather distracted since she had sensed death an hour ago but not immediately known where. But when she looked out the window of the coffee shop, an ambulance pulled up to old Mrs. Mason's home. That hadn't been part of her plan, at least not yet. This might need some personal attention. She finished her tea and went outside to join the group, just as the medics brought out a covered figure.

So Laura Mason had murdered her mother after all. Well, it created a risk but not a serious one. She commented to another person watching that it was no surprise, poor Mrs. Mason's health was so frail. She didn't say anything to the medics but made sure that they overheard. If this was discovered as a murder, it could make things awkward. Perhaps Laura should have an accident. Suicide was another option, though that would be harder to pull off. If only Laura were as clever outside the workplace as she was within. Well, no, if she were as clever as that, she'd not have been so beautifully easy to play. Her vanity, her righteousness, her addiction to drama, and her vindictiveness, all coupled with a ready sense of martyrdom, all Louise had to do was push a few pieces closer together, and that Joseph Chandler was no longer a possible complication to her work on her territory. It wasn't a perfect victory but it was one to be savored.

Laura came out of the house and good, she was doing a fine job of crying. Even if she was drawing on a well of self-pity, it was convincing. Louise made her way through the crowd and patted her on the arm. "It's all for the best, dear." Having a personal audience inspired Laura to cry even more pathetically. After all, now she was an orphan, even if she was almost fifty.

Louise went up with her to make her a nice cup of coffee and make certain that she wasn't going to give anything away. Laura was so good at justifying her behavior to make herself the poor martyr in any situation that if Louise were to mention that she knew perfectly well that Laura had murdered her mother because caring for her was too much of a burden, Laura would be genuinely indignant.

Self-righteousness was probably Louise's very favorite emotion in humans. Hate was second-favorite, obviously, but self-righteousness could go so much further. Especially if it was all done in the Opposition's name.

Llewellyn looked up from the autopsy table. "No doubt at all about it. She was drugged than smothered." She deftly lifted the deceased woman's eyelids to show where the tiny blood vessels had burst.

Something about the way her eyes looked bothered Miles. He'd seen petechiae like that before in smothered or strangled people, but the rest of her eyes looked wrong. "You're sure there's not something else? Her eyes don't look like the usual smothering victims."

"Cataracts. They probably never removed them because she had macular degeneration, so she was already completely blind."

So a blind woman is murdered...fine, fine, there was no evidence at all that her blindness was a factor, or that there was anything but pure coincidence, but his gut was telling him different. "So why the medical exam in the first place? Old woman dies in her bed, no outward signs of violence, it'd be nice to think we catch it every time it's murder, but we know we don't."

"She'd had a fall down the stairs three months ago. She was alone in the house but it still went on record."

That explained it. If anybody over 70 died less than six months after a serious fall, the death had to be examined, in case of elder abuse. Most of the time it was a quick check for bruises, malnutrition, the typical signs, but fortunately, their Caroline was more thorough than that. "Thanks, we'll take it from here."

Mansell was doing better with this one, maybe because she didn't show them incisions or organs, but he still wasn't much good for thinking until they were back in the Incident Room. Riley, on the other hand, was already thinking hard. "Can we get the full report on the fall?"

"There's a form to fill out, but I'll see if I can get things started with a call."

Up in the room, they started a board with her name, Sarah Mason, her age, 83, and the cause of death. The death was reported by her daughter, Laura, early that morning. Laura had said that she brought her a cup of tea, saw that she was dead, and called to report it.

"Riley, call the daughter and tell her we'll come by to ask some questions. Mansell, see if there's anything about the family." He could hear Riley asking the daughter if they could come over, in the usual soothing, warm tones she used with somebody who'd had a loss. Then Riley's voice turned sharper and that caught his attention enough to make him stop and actively listen.

"I know you're terribly busy now and it's an inconvenience, but this is very important."

"Yes, it is mandatory."

"We're going to come as soon as we can but no, we can't promise to make it sharp at eleven."

"Thank you so much."

Riley rolled her eyes. "She's a proper little miss, she is. Said the only possible time is eleven and that we're not to be late."

Mansell raised his head from the computer screen. "Skip, check this out. Sarah Mason had another daughter, Jean. She was one of the passersby killed in the explosion."

Miles turned to stare. "Yeah, the one with the Abrahamians," Mansell confirmed. So his hunch was right. There had to be a connection.


End file.
